


Thawed From Stone

by Neaislove



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Gen, canon character death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-10
Updated: 2014-12-10
Packaged: 2018-02-28 23:41:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,784
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2751518
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Neaislove/pseuds/Neaislove
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The person knocking on his door before sunrise had better be dying, or they will be.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Thawed From Stone

**Author's Note:**

> So this is less out and out Sterek, and more pre-Sterek there could be something.

There are very few things that can drag Derek from bed before the sunrise. One of them is an insistent pounding on his front door. His complete dislike of any stranger knocking at his door at any hour was part of the reason he chose to live so far away from town. The other reason being that he's a werewolf and the easy access to the preserve is a godsend. No amount of integration and 'werewolf friendly' gyms can match the cathartic experience of running through the woods.

With a frustrated growl Derek drags himself out of bed. He allows himself a second to sit on the edge of his mattress and wake up. It's just before dawn, maybe fifteen minutes to sunrise. He scrubs a hand over his beard and heaves himself up. It's getting colder out, enough to have him cursing the fact that he has no slippers. Christmas is just around the corner and so far the only thing he has up is a sad little pine he'd knocked down by accident on a run. The sight of it agitates him even more. By the time he's at his door he's ready to bare his teeth and snap.

"What?" Behind the door is a slight teenager. There's bags under his eyes and his hair is twisted up in every direction. Like he's raked his hands through it all.

"Can I come in?" He sounds desperate, and smells like adrenaline and anxiety. The boy toes the door molding and Derek leans forward to stop him.

"What do you want?"

The boy takes a small step back and throws his head back to see the horizon. His heartbeat ticks up. "Look man, I need to come inside."

They're standing upwind. Derek can't a decent scent over the crisp wind and the decomposing leaves. He looks like he's being chased though. Predators tend to give Derek a wide berth out of respect but if this kid is from out of town he could have brought something with him. The clear and honest panic on his face softens Derek. "Is something after you?"

"No, no. I just need to come in. The sun." He's gesturing wildly with his hands, flailing around and still edging forward. This time Derek takes a step forward and shoves his nose close to the boy's neck. The teenager smells like gravel and smoke. He jerks back and steps aside.

"Hurry up." As the kid strides pack Derek gets another nose full of his scent. "What are you doing out here? Shouldn't you be--"

"I swear to God man, if you say a church--"

Derek scoff and swings his door shut. "I was going to say home." He waves his hand over at his curbside couch. It's navy and smells like an elementary school but Derek likes it well enough. He doesn't get enough Were visitors for it to matter anyways. The boy flops down onto it and crosses his arms, tucking his fingers under them.

Watching a man turn to stone is a peculiar thing. And for a gargoyle it's a deeply personal matter. If they get caught out in the open they can get shattered or kidnapped. Derek has heard stories of hunters capturing them in stone and breaking off limbs and extremities for fun. The gargoyle wakes up at night to excruciating pain. The boy must be unbelievably desperate to let himself petrify in a strangers living room.

His body goes completely still. That'll be his body shutting down it's functions. Derek can't see it but he knows there's gray climbing up from his extremities. By the time the stone is creeping up his neck Derek is in front of him, shamelessly examining the rare occurrence. Gargoyles originated in Europe and few leave their churches. Derek had read that it was a matter of honor. But old lore said a gargoyle was tied to it's home by its heart. To leave it was to die. Turn to stone and erode away.

His eyes are the last to go, glazing over like a blind man's before stone covers them completely. The whole thing took less than three minutes. Just as the son peeked over the horizon and came through his living room window. The boy had seen it. Judging by the bags that had been under his eyes, he'd probably been ducking into caves and staying awake during the day.

It had been such a long time since anyone had trusted him. He had no pack, no friends. Derek was the surly hermit that everyone avoided. If Derek weren't an Alpha he would have become a feral omega years ago. He hasn't felt needed in a long time. It's nice. Even if it's only born out of desperation. It has Derek feeling energized, hopeful.

Instead of going back to bed Derek heads into the kitchen to find something to eat. His hermit status means he spends a lot of time avoiding the general populace. He supplements his groceries with wild game and vegetables from his garden around back. He still needs to shop, but he's able to go in sparingly, buying up long lasting staples that can sit on his shelves for ages.

The boy looks like he could use a good meal. Gargoyles, like werewolves, can eat wild game raw but they need a fair amount of it. This boy looks like he's been living off of a few scattered squirrels and berries. Derek fries up some eggs and resolves to head out before sundown to get a deer. Its been so long since he's had another person in his home that his senses are going haywire. His subconscious demands he provide for his guest. Like he needs to impress a potential pack mate.

He eats from the pan, because he only has two clean plates and one is in the fridge. He shudders to think what Laura would say if she could see him now. Derek had never been good at withstanding shame from his sister. There's not much he can do about the plates right now. He can't just walk out with a gargoyle cemented to his couch. So he resolves to do what he can.

His home was an old wooden house that he'd bought off an ailing taxidermist. In it's corners it still reeked of squirrel and tanning solution. The smell of wild game and old pine had soothed him, kept him calm and anchored without a pack. Gargoyle's preferred the smell of burning wicks and stone. Before the churches became grand sanctuaries for their kind, they hid away in caves. Their noses weren't sharp as a wolves, a little better than humans maybe. Their eyesight and hearing were way beyond Derek's range though.

Derek hated waking up early in the morning. The mornings had always been Laura's time. Maybe if he made this boy feel welcome he'd have someone to spend mornings with again.

* * *

Stiles came to slowly. Turning to flesh from stone was somehow worse than the reverse. Turning to stone was calming, it felt like going to sleep. Numbness spread from his extremities inward, dulling each of his senses until there was nothing. Sometimes he dreamed. Coming back was like being born. It was a rush of sensation. It could seem almost violent, too intense after so long in deprivation.

For months Stiles had been dodging daylight, staying awake all day and moving as soon as dusk fell. He'd push himself to the brink of exhaustion then sleep an hour or two. Just so he could start all over again. He just wanted to get away. But without friends it was hard to move. He couldn't risk turning to stone out in the open. He'd just been so damn tired. He looked half dead. Felt worse.

By the time he'd made it to Beacon Hill's he'd been desperate. Stiles had heard stories about Beacon Hills being something of an actual beacon for the supernatural. It had the highest Sup's per capita in Northern California. Stumbling onto a Hale had been pure luck. Their family was big in the community. Or it had been, before the arson. A few of them were scattered about. As far as he'd known, all the Hales had ditched Beacon Hills years back. Then he stumbled across a triskelion carved into a tree and made a guess. They'd been set up like markers, plotting out the boundaries of Hale territory. Fresh enough to have been made after the arson.

Without a nose to go on Stiles had staggered through the trees, looking for any small sign of life. Seeing the little cabin just before dawn? Stiles didn't put a lot of faith into divine intervention but it had its moments. And seeing who was behind the door? Stiles was ready shake the hand of an angel personally. He wasn't sure which Hale he'd come across, but the triskelion on the door was a dead giveaway. No werewolf with half a brain would hijack a pack sigil.

Stiles rolled his neck and stretched his arms above his head with a groan. He felt his spine pop bit by bit until he felt boneless. He was almost ready to slump back into the couch and sleep some more when he smelt it. Bacon maybe? His stomach gurgled and churned, reminding him that eating on the run was a luxury for daytime creatures.

He stumbled to his feet and let his nose guide him into the kitchen. The werewolf was there, prodding at the meat sizzling in a pan. By now the hunger was such a driving force, Stiles was helpless to stop himself from crowding close to the stove. He didn't stop until his stomach was flush with the werewolf's arm.

"Is that for me?"

The werewolf smirks and takes a small step to the side. Stiles takes the hint and backs up. "For us. You look half starved."

Stiles snorts. "Like three fourths man." He takes a deep breath, sucking in the delicious smell of sizzling meat. His stomach rumbles and he has to reel himself back to keep from shoving his face into the pan. "Is that ham?"

"Rabbit."

"Ah." Stiles rocks on the balls of his feet and takes a second to really look around. The kitchen is small, made smaller by the small kitchen island taking up the center of the space. The oven door probably stops just shy of brushing it when it's open. There's a few pots stacked on the counter by the sink. They're all mismatched and heavily worn. There's a hook on the wall next to the fridge and dangling from it are two squirrels and a rabbit. Apparently he'd found himself with Davey Crocket-Hale.

Derek furrowed his brows and crowded in closer to the burner, suddenly feeling anxious about his choice. He'd caught the rabbit himself. A lot of people couldn't stomach squirrel, that was more for him. But he'd just assumed that as a gargoyle the boy wouldn't mind. Now he wasn't so sure. "I can make something else?" He couldn't really. He had close to nothing in his pantry. It hadn't seemed right to stray when the gargoyle was trusting him. It'd been a stretch to go hunting. That's why he hadn't taken the time to bring down a deer.

Stiles waves his hands around and chuckles nervously. "No, nope. Just...aren't werewolves...picky about food?"

Derek raises an eyebrow and slides the pan from the heat. He takes a second to look at the gargoyle's face again. He looks young, but with gargoyle's it's hard to tell. They're practically immortal. He could be sixteen or six hundred. "Picky?"

Stiles scratches the back of his head with one hand waves the other towards the pan. "Yeah, like, they don't share kills with non-pack right?"

Derek clicks his teeth and hands the fork to the gargoyle. "Maybe some of them. We're all different. Pack custom varies." Derek waves the fork until the gargoyle takes it. For a second their fingers brush. He'd expected him to feel cold. Or have rough skin. But he's soft and warm, seemingly human. He steps away from the stove and gestures to the pan. If he can get the gargoyle to stay he'll have to go buy plates. Or maybe he'll do that anyway. Finally move along and become a productive member of society. A little at a time of course. "What's your name?"

The gargoyle nearly chokes round a mouthful of rabbit. He coughs and pulls the fork from his mouth, then starts chewing like a mad cow. Derek nearly cringes when he swallows. "Stiles...just, Stiles." He holds out his fist but Derek doesn't bite. Instead he flicks Stiles across the knuckles.

"I'm Derek."

The air seems a little lighter. Stiles seems happy to dig into his cut of rabbit. And he hasn't mentioned leaving. He doesn't seem like he's in a rush. The way he's devouring the meat is entirely his appetite. For a while the two of them pick at each other, sharing the fork and pan, while talking about trivial things. Derek doesn't ask why Stiles was running. Stiles doesn't ask where Derek's pack is.

It's not until Derek is yawning that Stiles realizes he might have a problem. He'd stumbled into Hale territory, quite literally, out of luck. He'd just happened to remember that the Hales were big on supporting the supernatural community. He hadn't come looking for asylum. And while sharing a meal with a stranger was a big thing, sharing his home with a stranger was quite another. Stiles runs his fingers across the couch cushions and keeps his eyes off of Derek's face.

"So..."

"So?"

Stiles clears his throat. He doesn't want to go outside. He doesn't want to spend another night out in the cold. The rumor about his species enjoying the cold was bullshit. They were like everyone else. Everyone had their ideal temperature. "It's suppose to be cold tonight right? I haven't caught the news in a while but it's December so..."

"Low of 40 I think."

"Ah." Stiles coughed and straightened himself up, bracing himself to get up and leave Derek's warm little house.

"Stiles, are you heading somewhere in particular?"

"No, I'm just...wandering around."

"You can stay." He doesn't say 'for the night'. He doesn't want to give a time frame. Stiles feels homey. He doesn't feel like pack, can't. It's too soon. They've known each other for less than twenty four hours. But Derek has hope. He was never going to go out and find someone. He needed this, needed someone to literally stumble into his life and make himself at home. This whole thing could crash and burn, or they could become pack. Derek was willing to figure it out.

The tension just melts away. Stiles hasn't been welcome anywhere in a while. He wasn't running from anyone. Hunter's rarely bothered his species. But he was running. From memories, from feelings. He'd just got up and started walking one day and couldn't stop. He felt restless everywhere he went and now he was just tired. "I'll sleep wherever you know."

"It's not uncomfortable when you wake up?"

"Nah, I can't feel anything when I'm stone. Which is kind of a big deal. Not the safest creature feature." It's a little awkward after that. Stiles is a little worried that he'll say the wrong thing. Or that a pack is going to come storming in. So far Stiles hasn't seen a trace of another wolf. From what he'd heard Hales had always preferred family over biting outsiders. Not to be elitiest, but more for the family feel. They didn't want numbers for numbers. Which Stiles could appreciate. Gargoyles were largely solitary creatures. They had friends and haunts but no real desire to surround themselves with others all the time.

Stiles was only half gargoyle. His family had been small. And it was all he needed. But now, without a family Stiles felt adrift. It's what sent him walking across the country. He wanted to feel safe again. Maybe it was selfish, but he couldn't imagine an Alpha wanting to be alone. If he could stay for a little while they could work something out. He just had to play it cool. He could manage that.

"I'm going to bed. Do you want a blanket?"

"Yeah. If you have one. It's habit, and my toes get cold." While Derek wanders away to get a blanket Stiles stands and fiddles with the hem of his hoodie. He's tired. Dancing somewhere between second wind and crazy adrenaline high. If Derek doesn't plan on kicking him out he'll be able to get back to his normal sleep schedule. Growing up he and his mom slept during the day, his father at nights. They had twilight together until his Dad started picking up the night shift. Then the three of them synced up and for a while things were amazing.

But all good things must end. Sometimes violently. Sometimes quietly. But they always end.

"Is this okay?" Derek has reappeared with a forest green fleece blanket. The satin trim around the edge has seen better days. It's ragged and stained in places but it feels soft. Stiles can't tell himself but he's sure it reeks of Derek and his den.

"Great. Have a good sleep. Sleep well. Count deer and all that." Stiles chuckles nervously and wads the blanket up in his arms. Derek raises an eyebrow and walks away slowly, like he's not quite sure what to make of Stiles. He gets that a lot. He's weird. It's whatever. Stiles waits until he hears Derek lie down in bed to plop down on the couch. For a while he just picks at the fabric pills on the blanket. Derek doesn't have much in the way of entertainment. They'd passed their time today by just talking.

Now Stiles is acutely aware of just how much trust Derek has given him. He's not just being allowed to stay in Derek's home. He's allowed to stay there even though Derek is fully aware that Stiles will be on a different sleep schedule and completely capable of snooping. Which is probably close to the level of trust Stiles had placed in him that very morning. Derek could have broken his fingers off. Or cut his clothes off. Or drug him out into a ditch somewhere. Instead he made dinner. They had potential.

He sighed and kicked his legs out, casting a curious look around the living room. He'd reigned himself in from snooping while Derek was awake. Stiles knew when not to toe the line. But now he was unsupervised. Not that there was much to snoop at. There wasn't even a tv. Instead, across from the couch, there was a collection of milk crates, turned on their sides, and shoved full of books. Next to that was a heavily scuffed end table with a record player on top. It was a newer model, the first thing Stiles had spotted that didn't look like it came straight from the dumpster. On the floor against the wall was a small lap. Derek probably traded that and the record player back and forth on an as needed basis.

There was a sad little pine tree propped up in the corner. It was sparse and young. The bottom of it was splinted, like it'd been knocked over rather than cut. Stiles wasn't sure how close to Christmas it was. He'd lost his phone somewhere in Nevada. It looked too sad to be a Christmas tree, but he couldn't imagine someone would bring in a fur tree for any other reason.

There were no pictures. No presents. If Stiles hadn't seen Derek here he'd think this place was abandoned. It was a little sad. Wolves were suppose to be pack creatures. There should be life everywhere. Thinking about why Derek could be alone sent Stiles down a path he didn't want to venture. He groaned and threw himself to the side, hugging the blanket to his middle. For a while he just talked to himself, passing the time like he had while walking. He was use to being his own company. Another night wouldn't kill him.

* * *

Derek woke up slowly. His feet felt cold. He groaned and stretched, scrunching and stretching his feet until he figured it out. The fleece blanket he usually kept at the foot of his bed was missing. He'd given it to Stiles. Who was probably petrified in the living room. Derek allowed himself a few more minutes in bed, enjoying the sleep warm sheets and the quiet sounds of nature filtering in from his window.

He was reluctant to get up at all. But a bigger part of him was eager to see Stiles. Derek had talked more yesterday than he had the rest of the year. And Stiles had been eager to fill the lulls with mindless chatter and useless trivia. He let Derek compose himself and didn't seem bothered by Derek's gruff demeanor or stilted conversational skills. If anything he'd been amused. He rolled himself out of bed and went to the bathroom. He went through his routine lazily, scratching at his beard and blinking the last of the sleep from his eyes.

He kept his pace light as he headed into the living room, not that there was far to go. The couch was empty and for a split second Derek's heart sank. He took a deep breath and caught Stiles' distinct scent. He hurried to round the couch and spotted him, fully stone, and cross legged next to the sad little pine tree.The blanket was pinched between his legs. Derek had never thought about the petrification process before. In cartoons a gargoyle's clothes turned to stone with it. Which was ridiculously impractical and impossible. It was almost funny to see Stiles sitting there like a statue, fully clothed.

Relieved that Stiles hadn't left in the middle of the night, Derek let himself relax. He sprawled out on the couch, propping his feet up on the arm rest closest to Stiles. It was probably around noon if the light was anything to go by.

There were so many things he needed to do. It had been easy to let his life slip away without anyone around to watch him. He'd tuned out all of his bad habits and the emptiness of the house. Now that he had company it was like he had new eyes. Derek could finally see how sad his little house had become. Growing up he'd never imagined anything like this for himself. He'd always assumed he'd keep living in his family's home. That there'd always been too many people and not enough privacy.

Now he lived alone in a matchbox house that smelt like old game and he was the local hermit. A far cry from the well to do history professor he'd imagined himself as a teen. It was a little disheartening. He didn't want that life for himself anymore but he couldn't quite find peace with where he was now. He didn't even have a set of dishes. He was barely functioning as an adult. He couldn't expect Stiles to share every meal with him out of a pan. The first step to being normal again had to be a shopping trip.

Derek scrubbed his face with his hands, lingering a few seconds to scratch at his beard. He pulled himself off of the couch to head to the kitchen. After eating last night he'd skinned the rest of his catch. Stiles had watched him very closely, asking questions here and there as they came to mind. It felt right, teaching someone something. He hadn't had the opportunity since becoming an Alpha to guide anyone. About anything. The closest he'd even come to it was growling at the produce boy at the market.

He made his way to the kitchen to check on what he actually needed. Plates were first on his list. And he had about a dozen mis-matched forks and knives but only one eating spoon. He had at least three large serving and stirring spoons that were gathering dust. Derek swept his eyes over his minuscule kitchen and felt the need to sigh. Living for more than yourself was hard. He was about to yank open his drawers when he noticed a note taped to his fridge. As he pulled it down he became aware of the heavy smokey smell concentrated here. Stiles must have snooped.

_'Hey man,_

_Looks like you need some stuff. I don't have money on me but get me to a bank and I can pay you back. But I figure if we're going to live together we're going to need some more plates. Don't worry about me. I'll find somewhere out of sight to curl up for the day while you go out._

_Your rockinist friend, Stiles'_

There was a little doodle next to his name. It was probably suppose to be a gargoyle but it looked more like a rabbit with a bird nose. Derek snorted and brought the paper up to his nose. It was torn off of an old take out bag. He took a deep breath and pulled in the strange smell of his new friend to familiarize himself with it.

Even with permission it'd been difficult to leave. The thought of someone coming into his territory and hurting Stiles flared his Alpha instincts. They still weren't close enough to be pack, that could take months, but Derek had lost so much already. Still, the desire to have a hot meal on a plate for Stiles when he woke up drove him to leave. The people in town were no more welcoming than ever, treating him alternatively like a commodity or a danger. Derek did his best to ignore it. For his patience he got a wide smile from the perky girl who'd rang out his set of dishes.

* * *

Dreams were rare things for gargoyles. Your time in stone was almost a void. Stiles' own mother dreamed rarely, maybe a handful of times in hundreds of years. Stiles' dreams were more frequent, a product of his human father. And although he'd never stepped foot in a cathedral, he dreamed entirely in stained glass. His dreams all played out like glowing mosaics of light and color. When he woke up it was difficult to remember what he'd really seen.

His last dream had been mostly blues and grays. Slowly moving panes of glass that showed his mother and father on opposite sides of a wrought iron line. Stiles knew exactly what it meant about him and he very pointedly ignored it all together. For his own sanity. But this dream had been different. Still mostly blue but with green at it's center. The shape was hard to make out but Stiles had seen something loping. Maybe a wolf running. Stiles wouldn't turn down seeing a werewolf in action. That's what he was going to attribute it to. No deeper meanings. None at all.

Stiles kicked out his legs and pulled the blanket from the crook of his knee. If he'd slept in skin he'd be all numb and sweaty. Small favors. He took his time getting to his feet. He could hear Derek in the kitchen. It didn't smell like rabbit this time. As he stood he took a look around the living room, noting the bright blanket tucked over the couch cushions. It looked brand new. The place even looked clean, gone were the cobwebs and bits of dirt and leaves clinging to every surface. All expect for the corner with the scraggly pine. That still looked untouched and as sad as ever.

Stiles hummed and made his way into the kitchen. Derek was there, straightening two plates of stew over rice. The plates were butter yellow, the color dwarfed with the heavy helping of food. Stiles was nearly drooling to get a bite. "Whoa, a guy could get use to this."

Derek snorted and cocked his hip to rest of the island. His arms were crossed over his arms like he couldn't care less but Stiles could see anxiety a mile away. Big bad Alpha was desperate to impress. "Try not to."

"You gonna feed me and kick me out? You shouldn't do that you know. Once you feed it, you have to keep it." Stiles chuckled and swiped his finger through a puddle of gravy.

"Maybe I just won't feed you anymore. How old are you anyway? Fifteen? Thirteen?"

"I am twenty five thank you very much!" Stiles smacks his hand down on the counter and sneers at him. His species ages very well. He'll probably look like a gangly teenager until he's well into his eighties. Then who knows. Or he could hit forty and age three decades over night. It was a crap shoot really. Gargoyle's didn't breed with humans very often.

After his little outburst the two of them dig in. Stiles lets Derek go first. But the second the fork is in his mouth Stiles tears in like a ravenous beast. He's aware that he eats like an uncultured swine, disgusted noises from the peanut gallery not needed thank you very much. He makes sure to groan and moan as much as possible. It's easier than pausing and giving an actual compliment.

When they're done Derek herds him to the couch. He spends the next few minutes smoothing his hands over his stomach and groaning about feeling like a pig. Derek is kind enough to not say he deserved it. It's written all over his face though.

"So, when are we going into town?"

Derek furrows his brow and frowns. "I went today."

Stiles waves his hand in the general direction of the kitchen. "Yeah, I noticed the plates and stuff. But I've gotta pay you back."

"You don't." His tone was barely above a whisper. He didn't want Stiles to pay him back. He wanted plates. He wanted to go into town more and see people. He wanted to be a functioning adult and Alpha. Stiles may have been the excuse, but he wasn't the reason.

No stranger to grief, Stiles doesn't press. "My dad was human." Stiles doesn't talk about his family. Because there's no one to tell. He was adrift, gargoyle without a post. "My mom use to live at Saint Mary's Basilica. She was born there, in the basement. She grew up there." Stiles fiddled with the hem of his shirt and sank lower into the couch. "When she was about...two hundred I guess, she started talking to a clergy man there. I don't know if he was a priest or a scribe. I know he was suppose to be celibate. She dropped something. A book I think. He gave it back to her and they got to talking."

"They started talking every night. When she had her first dream it was about him." He licks his lips and flicks his eyes over to Derek. The werewolf's face is somber, but open. He's turned toward Stiles and obviously listening very carefully. "She said it might have been love. But he was celibate and he took his vows very seriously. But they kept meeting. And he was definitely in love with her. Finally he had this painting commissioned. I've never seen it. Mom wouldn't let me. I think she's nude in it, half way turned to stone. Someone in the church found it. And gargoyles...well they were more concerned about what she could do for them than some little scribe or page or whatever."

"They told her they were going to excommunicate him for 'Basking in the wiles of women and unholy desires.' Something like that. And this guy, the church was his life you know? And my mom, she wasn't sure if she really loved him but she felt connected. He gave her dreams. Which is huge deal for us. So she left the church instead and told them that if he went, she'd convince the other gargoyles to go to."

Derek wasn't very religious, preferring the stories about mother moon to Christianity, but he knew enough to know that gargoyles protected their homes fiercely. Churches held them in the highest regard. Losing a gargoyle in that time was probably a social suicide. A pox on the house.

"She knew humans barely lived at all and that their time was precious. I guess. So she told him to forget her and stick to his faith. After that she wandered around, hopping from church to church. She guarded some poor families for a while. When she came here she decided she wanted a kid. She thought she'd find some guy and have a fling, birth me in a church basement and move on you know? But she fell in love with Dad."

"Did he make her dream?"

Stiles shook his head. "I did. When she was pregnant. But she loved him. She said she was sure that it was love." He's not sure he can say anything else. Losing his mother had been unthinkable. She was ageless. He'd known as a child that he'd outlive his dad. That he'd outlive everyone his dad had known and loved besides himself and his mother. But he didn't go first. So Stiles had clung. He'd dunked his head into the sand and stubbornly ignored his Dad's pending demise. When it happened his world just stopped. He felt like his heart had turned to stone in his chest and plunged down to his feet.

He doesn't want to think about it anymore. He's not ready to go down the dad road with Derek, as understanding as he's been. The pain's just too fresh. He starts drumming his fingers over his legs and sniffs back tears. Stiles looks wildly around for a change of subject, his eyes coming to rest on the little pine. "You should decorate that."

"I'll decorate you."

Stiles can't help it, he snorts. He's still a little teary eyed and his lungs feel like they're frozen but Derek is smiling at him. It looks nice. Derek knows he can't talk about it. And he's not offering up his own story. That's okay. They have time. They're going to live with each other. They could be a pack someday or a cloister. Whatever, Stiles isn't picky if the company's good.

* * *

When Stiles wakes up in the evening there's a box of Christmas decorations sitting by the tree. And he's absolutely covered in tinsel. He's already plotting his revenge when Derek comes around the corner.


End file.
